music

A Vida de Um Bloqueio Criativo

22 October, 2025 — 6 Comments

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Um dia antes do meu aniversário de 30 anos, visitei This is Taylor Swift: A Spotify Playlist Experience em Seul, para me despedir da minha juventude. Fui sozinha, encontrei minhas amigas depois, para celebrarmos. Estava usando a pulseira da amizade que ganhei na exposição, e acho que cantamos “You Belong With Me” no karaokê, depois de alguns drinks. No dia seguinte (meu aniversário de fato), acordei em meio a uma terrível crise alérgica. A amiga com quem eu morava na época precisou viajar a trabalho, então passei o dia sozinha, no escuro, abraçada à um rolo de papel higiênico, espirrando sem parar até pegar no sono.

This is Taylor Swift: a Spotify Playlist Experience. Seoul, 1 de Março de 2025.

Depois do meu aniversário, Taylor Swift desapareceu dos meus dias por alguns meses. Não foi de propósito; acho que cansei um pouco da imagem pública dela, mas sempre feliz pela loirinha, sua vida mudando diante dos olhos de todo mundo. A minha também mudava; a trilha sonora dos meus dias juntava vozes novas aos velhos favoritos das minhas piores temporadas, as canções às quais eu recorro quando nada dá certo, o futuro parece um vazio, e a esperança se esconde. Considerando tudo, acho que eu sabia, desde os primeiros teasers, que The Life of a Showgirl não seria a minha praia. De fato, a música não me convenceu, nem me sinto particularmente afeiçoada da narrativa que ela está vendendo. Refletindo sobre esse estranhamento, comecei a pensar nos últimos dois ou três anos da minha vida, na paralisia criativa que se infiltrou pelas rachaduras do meu ofício de escritora, e no meu próprio senso de conexão com a obra e a história da Taylor.

Há quatro anos e meio, eu publiquei um texto chamado “Minhas histórias de amor, contadas por Taylor Swift” — até hoje, o post mais lido do meu site. Na época, deixei bem claro que não me considerava propriamente uma fã; escrevi o ensaio porque achava engraçado que quase todas as minhas histórias de coração partido tinham, de pano de fundo, alguma canção da Taylor. Talvez fosse apenas a estatística jogando a favor das coincidências entre alguém da minha idade e a maior popstar da minha geração. Ainda assim, o verdadeiro motor daquele texto foi que, enfim, eu tinha me conectado com ela, por causa de “invisible string”. A letra tocava o âmago das minhas aspirações íntimas — a inescapável interligação de todas as coisas e a esperança de redenção pelo amor.

Depois disso, fiquei às margens da comunidade de fãs da loirinha, espiando alguns debates de vez em quando, através das Swifties de longa data que conhecia. Acompanhei de perto quando ela lançou Red (Taylor’s Version), mas foi só em Midnights que me senti completamente capturada pelo espírito do momento. Era meu primeiro semestre estudando na Coreia, e eu estava projetando toda a ansiedade de estar sozinha num país distante em um dos poucos amigos que tinha: um artista alto, bonito, interessado em música brasileira. Inspirada pelo álbum, comecei um diário separado, só para os pensamentos que me mantinham acordada à noite — quase todos sobre minha afeição por ele, me questionando se ele sentia o mesmo. Uma semana depois, ele me disse que estava namorando outra pessoa, e logo em seguida começou a me evitar completamente. Uma enxurrada de emoções, antigas e recentes, despencou sobre mim, e eu ainda não tinha raízes profundas o bastante para não me abalar. Eu precisava de ajuda para lembrar quem eu era; “You’re On Your Own, Kid” estava lá, todas as noites, me ajudando a reencontrar meu foco, na caminhada de quinze minutos entre o laboratório e o dormitório. 

Ela também estava presente meses depois, quando conheci um cara depois de um jogo de futebol. Ele me acompanhou até em casa, todas as minhas luzes se acenderam; liguei para minha melhor amiga ainda nas escadas, para dizer que tinha acabado de conhecer O Cara Certo. Nosso primeiro encontro foi justamente na época em que ela lançou a edição ‘Til the Dawn de Midnights, com a versão expandida da delicada e etérea “Snow on the Beach”, que acrescentou ainda mais encanto à alegria daquele momento. Taylor, por outro lado, tinha acabado seu relacionamento de seis anos no mês anterior. Foi difícil processar a experiência do sentimento que havia instigado minha conexão com a música dela, mas eu estava tão, tão convencida de que tinha finalmente encontrado o fio dourado da minha invisible string. Imediatamente comecei a planejar uma continuação do meu primeiro texto sobre histórias de amor; antes disso, peguei uma das entradas do meu diário de Midnights e transformei em um texto para celebrar o lançamento de Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), saboreando o prazer de compartilhar algo sobre estar feliz e apaixonada.

Terminamos no fim de agosto, e a ironia não me escapou. Estávamos na Europa, e foi repentino, mas não exatamente uma surpresa — na noite anterior, perto da meia-noite, eu escrevi no meu diário sobre o sentimento de querer ir embora. Mesmo assim, foi brutal; a covardia e a crueldade dele me despedaçaram, abrindo ao mesmo tempo todas as minhas feridas mais profundas. Eu estava longe de casa, cercada de estranhos (que depois viraram amigos), todos gentis o suficiente para me ajudar a manter meus pedaços juntos, até eu poder voltar à Coreia. 

Em retrospecto, aquele foi o começo do meu bloqueio criativo.

Quando postei algumas dessas fotos pela primeira vez no Instagram, recebi uma DM dizendo que eu parecia muito leve e feliz. Àquela altura, eu estava há 2, quase 3 semanas sem comer ou dormir, chorando a noite toda e sobrevivendo durante o dia pela graça de Deus e dos meus novos amigos. Linz, Setembro de 2023. Fotos por Patrick Münnich.

Começou com uma enxurrada de palavras, como nunca antes: um parágrafo novo a cada poucas horas, entre as muitas outras tarefas que eu tinha para cumprir. Eu estava desesperadamente tentando criar um caminho lógico para fora do turbilhão do nosso término, mas coisas novas surgiam o tempo todo, nossos caminhos continuavam entrelaçados por amigos e compromissos em comum. Apesar de ter sido um relacionamento tão curto, foi devastador, porque ele abriu um buraco no centro da pessoa que eu acreditava ser. Eu me ressentia por ser quem eu era, e escrevia dia e noite para reorganizar a narrativa da minha vida em algo com que eu pudesse verdadeiramente conviver, para seguir adiante. Paralelamente, eu trabalhava na minha dissertação de mestrado, discutindo sentido e produção de significado, todas as leituras atravessaram a minha crise pessoal e despertaram uma ideia. Queria escrever algo grande, meio científico, meio literário, para processar os detalhes de uma temporada tão intensa e, em última instância, justificar as minhas escolhas de vida — primeiro, diante de mim mesma, depois, diante do meu ex. Eu dormia muito pouco, indo e voltando entre a Coreia e a Áustria, colocando todo o meu tempo livre na busca pela linha de pensamento que me levaria até o magnum opus da minha crise dos vinte-e-tantos.

Desde então, publiquei bastante, correndo atrás dessa visão; criei um blog novo, com uma amiga, e um Substack, para manter as ideias fluindo, mas nada correspondeu às minhas expectativas. Primeiro, eu sentia vergonha de tudo o que escrevia, por toda a humilhação emocional que tinha enfrentado. Também passei a desconfiar dos meus próprios sentimentos e da minha capacidade de dar sentido às minhas experiências, depois de ter me enganado tão gravemente a respeito dele. Emaranhada no drama do nosso rompimento, vivi algumas das oportunidades mais empolgantes da minha vida, mas acabava me autocensurando sempre que tentava articular como me sentia naquele período, como se cada pensamento fosse um terrível lembrete da minha sentimentalidade imbecil. Eu até sentia vergonha de ser escritora, a ousadia de me colocar entre artistas de verdade sem ter nada a oferecer além de um relato vagamente sociológico de sentir e pensar demais. Por fim, eu me sentia cada vez mais sobrecarregada pela escala do que queria fazer. Esse tipo de atitude, eu aprendi, é sinal de que se está tentando compensar em excesso.

Aqueles que nunca superaram a síndrome de underground da adolescência não conseguem entender o que há de significativo em se conectar com uma canção tão famosa que se torna inescapável — ainda mais num cenário midiático tão fragmentado. Eu mesma trabalho com música independente, e minha compositora favorita é uma islandesa obscura, com um cult following (à qual sou devota desde os 17 anos). Mas Taylor Swift é como uma língua comum, uma carta que você sempre pode puxar para se conectar com alguém, até nos círculos mais inesperados. Quando ela lançou The Tortured Poets Department, em meio a tantas críticas públicas, eu a defendi o tempo todo. O número esmagador de músicas foi, para mim, uma grande coletânea de modos de processar as frustrações que eu enfrentava naquele período, de coração partido, e cada vez mais perto dos 30 anos. Não estava conseguindo extrair do momento a escrita que queria, mas tinha as palavras de outros para atravessar os dias.

Mais do que tudo, The Tortured Poets Department soava sincero e desnudo. Havia dor e desalento, visíveis e sensíveis, nos motivos musicais e visuais que ela escolheu para representá-los, mas também confissões lúcidas de atitudes repreensíveis da parte dela. Não é fácil criar algo brilhante, que ainda soe fresco ainda que esteja contando a mesma história que tantos outros já contaram antes. Eu sentia como se estivesse de luto com ela: pelo fim de sua história de amor fatídica, pela perda do “e se” que a acompanhou por uma década, os anos passados em Londres, a vida que ela acreditava que teria. Também havia lampejos de esperança — alguns vindos da carreira, outros do novo relacionamento. Não pude deixar de imaginar que tipo de trabalho teria sido se ela já não tivesse encontrado outra pessoa, antes de lançar o álbum. Se teria sido tão fácil escrever e cantar “I’m pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free” em So Long, London sem um novo amor, algo tão promissor, capaz de suportar o peso de tudo aquilo que ela tinha perdido.

Em vez de postar uma das minhas músicas favoritas de The Tortured Poets Department (a própria title track), vou registrar aqui meu maravilhoso (e inesperado) encontro com a própria Patti Smith. Seoul, 19 de Abril de 2025.

O ponto alto de The Life of a Showgirl é logo a primeira faixa: “The Fate of Ophelia” é simpática e deliciosamente empolgante. Onde a letra sacrifica complexidade emocional em nome da alegoria, a alusão constrói um quadro cativante de redenção — “you saved me from the fate of Ophelia”. Quase como da primeira vez que ouvi “invisible string”, senti um pouco de alívio e esperança — por ela, primeiro, e por mim, em seguida. Há outros momentos interessantes: “Opalite” é divertida e otimista, e “Father Figure” faz muito com raiva e ironia, um clássico instantâneo. A faixa-título, “Life of a Showgirl”, merecia uma resolução mais clara, um pouco menos de clichê (aqui cabe uma menção ao gênio de “Clara Bow”), mas não deixa de ser familiar, o calor da voz de Sabrina Carpenter tornando tudo ainda mais convidativo. O restante soa como uma coleção de rascunhos: ganchos melódicos marcantes desperdiçados em letras duvidosas e frases desajeitadas, as dissonâncias agravadas pelas expectativas que ela cultivou ao longo dos anos. Acima de tudo, não há uma âncora. “Eldest Daughter”, a famosa faixa 5 deste lançamento, foi, francamente, um erro: sem rumo, com letras de mau gosto, uma sátira mal aplicada, a profundidade de um pires. 

Eu ia usar este espaço para compartilhar uma excelente video essay sobre o álbum mas decidi que “The Fate of Ophelia” seria mais divertido.

Conteúdo sobre o álbum, na ocasião do lançamento, foi inevitável no meu lado da internet, as reações partindo do bem decepcionante ao completamente frustrante (isso sem contar as demonstrações irracionais de ódio). O volume de discurso em torno de tudo o que Taylor Swift faz é enlouquecedor, mas esse dilúvio de think pieces é justamente o que ela trabalhou para construir — sua carreira foi erguida numa construção coletiva, ajuntando pessoas através do seu jeito de ser extremamente vulnerável, excessivamente detalhada e infinitamente ambiciosa. Mas, para um álbum que pretendia lançar luz sobre o outro lado da fama, Showgirl soa como mais uma performance (e não de propósito). Não acho que o problema seja que ela não tinha o que dizer, como sugeriram alguns, mas não parece que estava pronta para fazê-lo. Talvez o intervalo entre os lançamentos tenha sido curto demais, talvez estivesse exausta da turnê, com uma capacidade de julgamento comprometida (mesmo para um conceito leve). Posso perdoar minha amiga parassocial Taylor Swift por não saber como falar de uma temporada nova e feliz, mas me reservo o direito de sustentar meus critérios, como fã e escritora que espera algo melhor dela. 

Ainda assim, parte do seu entendimento próprio parece alinhado ao material; em entrevista a Jimmy Fallon, ela disse que esta é uma de suas eras com a maior correspondência entre como ela se sentia no passado, quando escreveu as músicas, e como se sente agora, ao lançá-las. Lembro de como me senti escutando TTPD, e no significado de olhar para tempos turbulentos a partir da promessa de restituição. Faz sentido que ela soe meio dispersa agora, se estava acostumada a lançar álbuns com mais distância emocional da estação que estava tentando capturar. Talvez parte da dissonância teria sido evitada se a campanha promocional tivesse sido menos pretensiosa, mas as estratégias de marketing também parecem equivocadas, como se ela não percebesse que certas coisas mudaram — até mesmo as expectativas de seus fãs mais fiéis. Esse tipo de miopia, eu aprendi, é sinal de que se está tentando compensar em excesso. Na ânsia de reparar os anos de melancolia, ela falhou em acertar o elemento aspiracional de cantar a própria felicidade. Faltou, nas músicas, algo que me faça querer sair por aí e me apaixonar também.

Em 1:18, ela diz “Essa foi, eu acho, a era mais bem alinhada, em termos de onde minha vida estava, quando escrevi, e onde estou agora, quando foi lançado.”

Refletir sobre a falta de clareza em The Life of a Showgirl me fez pensar na minha crise criativa dos últimos anos, e os motivos pelos quais tem sido difícil escrever sobre uma das temporadas mais intensas da minha vida.

A explicação simples é que nada do que eu escrevi nos últimos dois anos realmente correspondeu à minha visão, nem aos padrões que estabeleci para ela. A parte complicada é como essa visão e esses padrões surgiram. Minhas crises criativas não são de encarar uma página em branco; eu sempre posso escrever algo, dezenas de parágrafos, mas que não resultam em algo que eu queira que outros leiam. Para sair disso, precisava decidir se minha escrita não me satisfazia porque eu precisava trabalhar mais, ou porque eu precisava mudar os parâmetros (“um pouco dos dois” não basta). No fundo, permanecia a esperança de redimir uma temporada tão desastrosa da minha vida através da escrita — dar sentido ao meu estado atual, me convencer de que meu caminho ainda era a vida em que eu acreditava, voltar a me orgulhar daquilo que considerava minha vocação. Eu queria provar alguma coisa, para mim e para os outros, mas a realidade do que eu tinha a oferecer estava em conflito com o que eu queria alcançar. Naquela época, eu não acreditava em mim mesma, nem na vida que tinha escolhido viver. Mesmo agora, ainda não acredito.

O aspecto mais persistente dessa crise é minha desilusão com os limites de histórias e narrativas — uma experiência nova para alguém que sempre se deu bem com os horizontes semânticos da linguagem. De repente, eu passei a odiar a sensação de esmiuçar uma fase difícil até transformá-la numa visão mais otimista, ou de recorrer à interconexão de tudo para encontrar bênçãos escondidas. Minha terapeuta costumava propor que eu aproveitasse a liberdade de interpretar as coisas e dobrar a narrativa ao meu gosto. Em vez disso, eu senti raiva, porque nenhuma mudança de perspectiva a respeito das minhas perdas e fracassos dos últimos anos me dá poder sobre o estado geral da minha vida, nem sobre a liberdade dos outros, de que formem opiniões a meu respeito sem a minha autorização. Controle, controle, controle — a cada rascunho novo, aumentava o desejo de retalhação por cada rejeição e perda dos últimos anos.

Passei a maior parte de 2023 e 2024 ocupadíssima, mas reservei um tempo para essa festa especial do lançamento de 1989 (Taylor’s Version), organizada pelo clube de fãs de Taylor Swift no KAIST. Algumas das minhas amigas não puderam comparecer, então fiz pulseiras da amizade para elas. Meu look foi inspirado em “Welcome to New York.” Daejeon, Outubro de 2023.

As coisas têm sido melhores nos últimos meses, de formas quase milagrosas — do tipo que poderiam me fazer acreditar de novo que ainda estou seguindo o caminho do fio dourado. Escolhi resistir à vontade de agarrar essa sequência de coisas boas e tecer com elas uma imagem falsa de esperança, uma desculpa para expressar o alívio de me sentir um pouco mais no controle da narrativa. Voltar a estar feliz depois de um tempo miserável é um sentimento estranho, cheio de fissuras que exigem atenção total. Nada do que conquistei diminuiu o peso da minha insuficiência, nem me arrancou da sensação de ser inútil e merecer as acusações que me silenciaram. Continuo perdendo o sono com outras coisas, coisas novas. Aqui, preciso sustentar meus parâmetros: nem meus sentimentos nem minha sinceridade significam nada para os outros se não resultarem em algo de substância, fruto do meu trabalho. Enquanto eu estiver escrevendo para me provar alguma coisa, não vou tocar o centro da questão, e não vai ser bom o bastante. O problema está em outro lugar, e eu preciso continuar procurando.

Dos muitos rascunhos e publicações deste período, algumas coisas chegaram, de fato, bem perto do que eu estava procurando. No Corvo Correio, tudo que publiquei desde Setembro de 2023 foi algum tipo de resposta à minha crise criativa (um paradoxo deveras prolixo). Incluindo “loucura e angústia“, sobre a morte da minha avó — algo que escrevi ao longo de um ano, com traços da autoabsorção da ansiedade e dos lados negativos da interconexão de tudo. Meu favorito de todos é “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle: How to be Disposable,” postado originalmente no sappy sallows, durante uma madrugada de estudos. Para aquele blog, eu também escrevi “at a crossroads,” razoavelmente curto, sobre como minhas lutas profissionais, criativas e emocionais estavam interligadas. Por último, “at-a-distance,” a tentativa mais longa, ampla e ambiciosa até agora, de cruzar teoria e experiência, uma bagunça cheia de potencial (com uma menção inesperada à Taylor Swift).

Antes que a seca atingisse o meu Substack, também consegui fazer por lá algumas coisas das quais me orgulho. “Chasing Ideal Types” mostrou como minhas perspectivas filosóficas e sociológicas atravessam minhas experiências, e me ajudou a lidar com algumas rejeições. “Like a Polaroid” capturou diferentes facetas dos motivos pelos quais tenho tido dificuldade para escrever, com mais detalhes e espaço para divagar do que este ensaio atual permite. Em “Nurtured by Ravens,” minha newsletter favorita, compilei trechos de coisas que escrevi sobre meu término, especialmente reflexões sobre a interconexão de tudo, e como ela tanto me abençoou quanto me falhou. Até certo ponto, terminar e publicar esses textos realmente fez com que eu me sentisse mais contente comigo mesma e com o estado da minha vida, ainda que só por um momento.

Eu também experimentei com outros métodos e mídias para expressar minhas ideias e sentimentos. Tanto a Arte quanto as Ciências Sociais me foram úteis neste tempo. Você pode ler mais sobre os projetos nessas imagens aqui.

Minha simpatia sem fim pela Taylor talvez estrague um pouco da minha credibilidade, mas continuo com a impressão de que nós duas estamos trilhando um caminho parecido, ainda que os detalhes das nossas questões sejam completamente diferentes — ela é a maior estrela do mundo, quebrando recordes e se preparando para casar, eu sou a que precisa se preocupar em ter dinheiro para as compras do mês. Mas uma das grandes funções sociais de uma celebridade é se tornar um dispositivo narrativo, um vocabulário público para que pessoas comuns discutam coisas da vida. A mirrorball mais uma vez refletiu minha própria imagem de volta para mim, e eu encontrei algo como resposta. Ao mesmo tempo, por ora, a forma como ela se enxerga no mundo não é a referência que eu quero para mim. Como fã e como escritora, mantenho o meu direito de achar que ela não foi completamente honesta nesse novo lançamento. Mesmo assim, continuo aqui, usando minha pulseira da amizade quase todos os dias, não tanto por ela, mas por todas as outras coisas que ela significa para mim: um lembrete de tudo que fiz para honrar minha juventude, para continuar vivendo com o mesmo coração.

Quanto ao meu bloqueio criativo (ou seja lá como chamar minha crise semântica), acredito que ainda vai demorar até que eu deixe essa temporada no passado. As coisas levarão o tempo que precisam (inclusive este texto, publicado quase duas semanas depois do planejado); eu nunca fui paciente, mas aprendi a ser mais compreensiva. Quanto mais envelheço, mais alguns dos meus problemas parecem ser as perguntas necessárias ao longo do caminho para ser eu mesma. Talvez minhas lutas com sentido e controle nunca desapareçam. Continuo brigando com Deus todos os dias, alimentando a ideia de que talvez eu consiga arrancar alguma soberania de Suas mãos, se me esforçar o bastante. A única esperança para uma controladora é ceder um pouco; se não consigo fazê-lo pela minha paz de espírito, talvez o faça porque preciso alcançar o tipo de honestidade de quem admite a derrota, para lapidar meu ofício e honrar minha vocação. Acreditei que um texto poderia redimir os meus tempos difíceis porque acreditei, acredito, na importância da tarefa de escrever. Mesmo que eu nunca alcance exatamente o magnum opus que imaginei, vou continuar tentando realizar alguma coisa.

Meus agradecimentos à Ashley Chong, minha editora de confiança, e às amigas com as quais eu passei cerca de 200h discutindo esse álbum (e que também tiraram tempo para ler as primeiras versões deste texto): Gésily, Bruna, Gabriela, Rayane, Thaines, Esther, Guilherme, Luiza, e minha irmã Julia.

The Life of a Writer’s Block

22 October, 2025 — 1 Comment

Versão em Português aqui.

I visited This is Taylor Swift: a Spotify Playlist Experience by Spotify in Seoul the day before I turned 30. I went alone, to bid my girlhood goodbye, then I met my friends afterwards, to celebrate properly. I was wearing the friendship bracelet I got at the exhibition, and I’m pretty sure we sang “You Belong With Me” at the karaoke. The day after, my actual birthday, I woke up in a terrible allergic crisis. The friend I was living with at the time left for a business trip, and I spent the day alone in the dark, lying next to a roll of toilet paper, sneezing every 45 seconds until I fell asleep.

This is Taylor Swift: a Spotify Playlist Experience. Seoul, 1 March 2025.

That was the last I had of Taylor Swift for a few months. It wasn’t on purpose; though I did get a bit fed up with her public persona, I was mostly happy for her, her life changing before everyone’s eyes. My life was changing as well, the soundtrack of my days mixing fresh voices and old favourites of my lowest times, the kind of stuff you reach towards when nothing works out, the future looks like a void, and hope feels elusive. In this head space, my hindsight bias tells me we knew that The Life of a Showgirl wouldn’t be our cup of tea since the first teasers. I don’t feel convinced by the music, nor am I particularly attached to the narrative she is pushing. Dwelling on this estrangement made me think about the last 2-3 years of my life, the creative paralysis that crept in through the cracks in my duty as a writer, and my sense of connection with Taylor’s work and story.

Four and a half years ago, I published an essay called “My Love Stories, as told by Taylor Swift” — by far, the most popular piece on my website. I made it clear that I didn’t really consider myself a fan of hers around that time; I wrote the essay because it was funny to me that most of my memories of broken hearts had one of her songs playing in the background. Maybe it was just probabilities boosting the overlaps between a person my age, and the biggest pop star of my generation. Nonetheless, the real driving force behind the essay was that I had finally connected with her story, because of “invisible string.” The lyrics spoke to the heart of my intimate aspirations — the inescapable interconnectedness of everything, and the hope of redemption through love.

After that, I settled at the fringes of her fandom, peeking into their conversations from time to time, through the long-term Swifties in my circles. I followed closely when she released Red (Taylor’s Version), but it wasn’t until Midnights that I felt completely captured by the spirit of her time. It was my first semester studying in Korea, and I projected all of my anxiety about being alone in a distant country onto one of my few friends, a tall, good-looking artist with an interest in Brazilian music. Inspired by the album, I started a separate journal just for the thoughts keeping me up at night — mostly about my crush on him, and whether he felt the same. He told me he was dating someone else a week later, and then started avoiding me altogether. A downpour of emotions, present and past, crashed over me, and I lacked the roots to keep me grounded. I needed help to remember who I was; “You’re On Your Own, Kid” was there for me, to help me bring things into focus every night, on the 15-min walk between my lab and my dorm.

She was also there months later, when I met a guy after a football match. He walked me home, all the sparks were flying, I called my best friend as I walked upstairs, to tell her I had just met The One. Our first date was right when she released the ’Til the Dawn edition of Midnights, with an expanded version of the delicate, dreamy “Snow on the Beach,” which added more whimsy to the joy of that moment. Taylor, on the other hand, ended her six-year relationship the month before. I felt quite conflicted about dwelling on the feeling that sparked my connection to her music, but I was so, so convinced I had found the single thread of gold of my invisible string. I planned to write a sequel to my first essay about love stories, once we had been together for long enough; first, I edited one of my midnight journal entries into a text to celebrate the release of Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), and savour the delight of sharing something about being happy and in love.

We broke up by the end of August, and the irony was not lost on me. We were in Europe, and it was sudden, but not a complete surprise — just the night before, around midnight, I wrote a text about feeling that it was time to go. Still, it was brutal; his cowardice and cruelty tore me apart, cutting open all my core wounds at the same time. I was away from home, surrounded by strangers (who became my friends), all of them graceful enough to help me hold my parts together until I could go back to Korea.

In retrospect, that was the seed of my writer’s block.

When I first shared some of these picture on Instagram, someone told me I looked so “genuinely happy.” At that point, I was running on 2-going-on-3 weeks of no food and no sleep, crying through the night and relying on friends to power through the day. Linz, September 2023 (by Patrick Münnich).

It started with writing the most I had ever had, a new paragraph every couple of hours, in between the other things I had to do. I was desperate to rationalise my way out of the maelstrom of our breakup, and new things were constantly coming up, our paths being entangled by common friends and common business. Though it was such a short relationship, it was devastating, because he blew a hole through the centre of the person I thought I was. I resented myself for being me, and I wrote day and night to reorganise the narrative of my life into something I could truly live with, to move on. On the side, as I worked on my Master’s thesis about meaning and sense-making, all the reading I did pierced through my personal crisis, and it sparked an idea. I wanted to write something big, both scientific and literary, to capture the specifics of such an eventful season and, ultimately, justify my life choices — before myself, first, and before my ex, second. I slept very little, going back and forth between Korea and Austria, all of my free time going into looking for the right thought process towards the magnum opus of my quarter life crisis.

I have published a lot since then, chasing my vision; I created a new blog, with my friend, and a Substack, to keep the thoughts flowing, but nothing lived up to my expectations. First, I was embarrassed of everything I wrote, because of all the emotional shaming I endured. I also distrusted my own feelings, and my ability to attach meaning to my experiences, after being so gravely wrong about him. Enmeshed with the drama of our breakup, I experienced some of the most exciting opportunities of my life, but I self-censored whenever I tried to articulate how I felt about that season, as if every thought I produced was an abhorrent reminder of my dumb sentimentality. I was ashamed of being a writer altogether, called out on the audacity of standing in the midst of real artists with nothing to offer but a vaguely sociological account of feeling and thinking too much. Finally, I felt burdened by the scale of what I wanted to do; such a thing, I have learned, is a sign that one might be trying to overcompensate.

Those who never got over their teenage repulse to anything mainstream cannot understand what is meaningful about connecting with a song that is inescapable, more so in such a fragmented media landscape. I work with independent music, my favourite songwriter is an obscure Icelandic woman with a cult following (to which I have been devoted since I was 17). But Taylor Swift is like a common language, a card you can always pull to make a connection, even in the most unexpected circles. When she released The Tortured Poets Department to much public criticism, I was on her side for the most of it. The overwhelming volume of songs was a handy collection of ways to process the frustrations I was dealing with at the time, as I approached my 30th birthday. I couldn’t put together the writing that I wanted, but I had other people’s words to help me through it.

More than anything, The Tortured Poets Department was unmasked. There were pain and dismay, vividly coming through the musical and visual motifs she chose to portray them, but also lucid confessions of reprehensible attitudes on her end. A lot of work goes into crafting something brilliant, that still sounds fresh, even if it’s telling the same story that countless others have told before. I felt like I was grieving with her, the end of her fateful love story, the loss of the decade-long “what-if” in the back of her mind, the years she had spent in London, the life she thought she was going to have. There were also moments of hope — some from her career and work, some from her new relationship. I have sometimes wondered what kind of work it would have been if she hadn’t already found someone else, by the time she released it. If it would have been as easy to write and sing “I’m pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free” in “So Long, London” if there was no promising new lover bearing the weight of all that she had lost.

Instead of posting my favourite song from The Tortured Poets Department (the title track itself), I will record here my wonderful, unexpected encounter with Patti Smith earlier this year. Seoul, 19 April 2025.

The highlight of The Life of a Showgirl is the very first song: “The Fate of Ophelia” is likeable and deliciously uplifting. Where the lyrics sacrifice emotional complexity for the sake of the allegory, the allusion paints a touching picture of redemption — “you saved me from the fate of Ophelia.”  Like the first time I heard “invisible string,” I felt relieved and hopeful — for her, first, and for myself, second. There are other good moments: “Opalite” is bright and optimistic, and “Father Figure” accomplishes a lot through her rage, an instant classic. The title track, “Life of a Showgirl,” could use a stronger resolution and a bit less cliché (here goes a nod to “Clara Bow”) but it is familiar and inviting, Sabrina Carpenter’s voice making it all the more heart-warming. The rest sounds like a collection of drafts, striking melodic hooks wasted on questionable lyrics with clumsy phrasing, the dissonances aggravated by the expectations she has nurtured over the years. Above all, the whole lacked an anchor. “Eldest Daughter,” the famed track 5 of this release, was, quite frankly, a mistake: no sense of direction, distasteful lyrics with misused satire, the overall depth of a saucer.

I was going to use this space to share a great video essay about the album but then I realised just sharing “The Fate of Ophelia” would be more fun.

Public response to the album has been unavoidable on my side of the internet, ranging from very underwhelmed to utterly disappointed (if we leave out the displays of passionate hate). The volume of discourse surrounding everything Taylor Swift does is maddening, but this deluge of think-pieces is what she worked for — her career was built on bringing everyone onboard her extremely vulnerable, overly detailed, highly ambitious brand of stardom. But, for an album meant to shed light on the other side of her fame, Showgirl sounds like yet another performance (and not on purpose). I don’t think the issue is that she had nothing to say, as some have suggested, but it doesn’t feel like she was ready to do so. Perhaps the time between releases was too short, she was burnt out from the touring, with a clouded judgement (ever for a light-hearted concept). I can excuse my parasocial friend Taylor Swift for being unsure of where she stands during a happy season, but I draw the line as a fan and fellow writer who expects better.

Still, some of her self-awareness seems to align with the material; speaking to Jimmy Fallon, she said this is one of her most well-matched eras, considering where she was when she wrote the songs, and where she is now, upon releasing them. I think back to how I felt about TTPD, and the meaning of her looking back at turbulent times from within the promise of restitution. It makes sense that she sounds all over the place now, if she was used to releasing albums with more emotional distance from the season she was trying to capture. Maybe some of the dissonance would have been avoided if the promo campaign had been less pretentious, but her marketing strategies also seem misguided, as if she can’t tell certain things have changed — even the expectations of her faithful fanbase. Such short-sightedness, I have learned, is a sign that one might be trying to overcompensate; her eagerness to atone for the years of melancholia might have missed the aspirational component of singing about her present happiness. There isn’t much in the music that makes me want to go outside and fall in love as well.

At 1:18, she says “This has just been, like, I think the most well-matched era, in terms of where my life was, when I wrote it, and then where I am now, when it’s out in the world.”

Sifting through the lack of clarity in The Life of a Showgirl made me think of my own writing of the last few years, and the reasons why I have struggled to talk about one of the most eventful seasons of my life.

The simple explanation is that nothing I have written in the last two years or so has truly satisfied my vision, and the standards I set for it. The complicated part is how the vision and the standards came to be. My brand of creative crisis isn’t me staring at a blank page; I could still write paragraphs by the dozens, but they rarely amounted to anything I wanted to let others read. To hope to get out, I had to decide whether my writing was falling short because I needed to work harder, or because I needed to move the benchmark (“a little bit of both” is not enough). Underlying all of it, the hope I entertained, of redeeming such a disastrous season through writing — to make sense of my current state, to convince myself that my path was still the life I believed in, to feel once again proud of what I considered to be my calling. I was eager to prove something, to myself and to others, but the reality of what I had to offer was at odds with what I wanted to accomplish. Back then, I didn’t really believe in myself at all, or in the life I had chosen to live. Right now, I still don’t.

The most enduring aspect has been my disillusionment with the limits of storytelling — an unfamiliar experience, as someone who had always appreciated the semantic horizons of language. I started to hate the feeling of rationalising a difficult season into a more optimistic outlook, or appealing to the interconnectedness of everything to count my blessings. My therapist used to propose that I should relish the freedom to interpret things and bend the narrative to my liking. Instead, I have been angry, because no amount of reframing my losses and failures will grant me power over the overall state of my life, and other people’s freedom to nurture opinions about me that I have not sanctioned. Control, control, control, each new draft increasing my desire of owning up to every failure, rejection and loss of the last few years.

I was busy all the time for the most of 2023 and 2024, but I made the time to attend this special listening party for 1989 (Taylor’s Version), organised by the Taylor Swift club at KAIST. Some of my friends couldn’t come, so I made them all friendship bracelets. My outfit was inspired by “Welcome to New York.” Daejeon, October 2023.

Things have been much better for a couple of months now, in miraculous ways — the kind of thing that could have made me believe once again that I am still tied to the invisible string. I have resisted the urge to grab the streak of good outcomes and weave them into a fake picture of hope, an excuse to express the relief of feeling a bit more in control of the narrative. To feel happy again, after being miserable for a long time, is an unsettling feeling, full of cracks to be watched closely. Nothing I have accomplished has lessened the burden of my insufficiency, or snapped me out of feeling worthless and rightfully shamed into silence. I am still losing sleep over other things, new things. Here, I must uphold my standards: neither my feelings nor my openness mean anything to others unless they achieve something, as a result of my craft. As long as I am writing to convince myself of something, I am not accessing the heart of the matter, and it won’t be good enough. The issue lies somewhere else, and I must keep looking.

Amongst the many drafts and actual publications of this period, a few things did get quite close to the writing I was looking for. On the Raven Post, every single piece posted since September 2023 has been some sort of response to my creative crisis (a paradox, and a very wordy one, if we are being honest). That includes “madness and sorrow“, about my grandma’s death — something I wrote over the course of a year, weaving in traces of the self-absorbedness of anxiety, and the negative sides of the interconnectedness of everything. My absolute favourite one is “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle: How to be Disposable,” originally posted on the sappy sallows. Also for that blog, I wrote “at a crossroads,” a (rather) short account of how my emotional, creative and professional struggles intertwined. Lastly, “at-a-distance,” the longest, broadest and most ambitious attempt I have made so far, of combining theory and experience, messy but full of potential (also, ironically, contains an unexpected mention of Taylor Swift).

Before the drought caught onto my Substack, I did put together a few things of which I am proud. “Chasing Ideal Types” showed how my philosophical and sociological perspectives cut through my experiences, and helped me process a few rejections. “Like a Polaroid” captured different facets of the reasons why I have been struggling to write, with more details and room to wander than this present essay allows. In “Nurtured by Ravens,” my favourite one, I compiled excerpts from things I wrote about my breakup — specifically musings on the interconnectedness of everything, and how it had both blessed me and failed me. To a certain extent, finishing and publishing each of them did make me feel more content with myself and the state of my life, even if for a very short amount of time.

I also experimented with other ways of expressing my ideas, and both Art and the Social Sciences served me a bit during this time. You can read more about the projects in these images here.

My endless sympathy for Taylor Swift might pierce a hole through my credibility, but I am still under the impression that the two of us are walking a similar journey, even though the specifics of our problems are completely different — she is the biggest star in the world, smashing records and preparing to get married, I am the one who has to worry about affording groceries every month. But celebrities are at their best when, to any extent, they serve as a plot device to help common people make sense of their lives. The mirrorball has once again reflected myself back to me, and I was happy to respond. At the same time, for now, the way she sees herself in the world is not the reference I want to entertain. As a fan and fellow writer, I retain the right to think she failed to be completely honest with this new release. I still wear my friendship bracelet everywhere I go, not so much for her, but for the world of other things that it means to me: a reminder of everything I did to honour my girlhood, and to keep living with the same heart.

As for my writer’s block (or whatever we may call my semantic crisis), I believe it will be a while before I put this season behind me. Things will take their time anyway (including this essay, published almost two weeks later than planned); I have never been patient, but I learned to be understanding. The older I get, some of my problems seem to be the necessary questions of being myself. Maybe my struggles with meaning and control won’t ever go away. I am still wrestling with God every day, cradling the thought that I might eventually snatch some sovereignty from His hands, if I try really hard. The only hope for a control freak is to relent a bit; if I cannot do it for my peace of mind, I may do it because I need the type of honesty required to admit defeat, in order to hone my craft, and honour my calling. I believed an essay could redeem the hard times because I believed in the significance of the task of writing. Even if I never accomplish the exact magnum opus I envisioned, I will keep trying to accomplish something.

Many thanks to Ashley Chong, my trusted editor, and to my friends with whom I spent almost 200h going back and forth about this album (and who also took the time to read through the early drafts): Gésily, Bruna, Gabriela, Rayane, Esther, Luiza, and my sister Julia.

song review: Bobby, “RaiNinG” (feat. Ju-ne), Lucky Man (2021)  

7 June, 2022 — Leave a comment

Originally published on Vol. 2, No. 5 of WWLT (What We are Listening To), KPK: Kpop Kollective.

Korean rapper Bobby, born Kim Jiwon, was first introduced to the public in 2013 during the survival show WIN, in which he and his future group mates — then known as “Team B” — competed for the chance to become YG Entertainment’s first boy group since BIGBANG (2006). After losing to Team A (which went on to become WINNER), it would take another two years for him to become iKON’s Bobby, in 2015. Before that, in 2014, he competed on season 3 of Show Me The Money, the popular Korean rap competition. He became the first, and so far only, idol to win the show in its ten seasons, a victory which secured his place as one of the best rappers in the Korean music industry. He has so far released two solo albums; Love and Fall (2017) and Lucky Man, released on 25 January, 2021, with 13 tracks plus 4 skits, and featuring fellow iKON members DK and Ju-ne. 

Lucky Man tells a story of success, love, and heartbreak; the b-side “RaiNinG” (feat. Ju-ne) comes right after Skit 4, starting the final portion of the album, which deals with the struggle to reach closure, but eventually moving on. The skit is a recording of Bobby arriving home, and pouring himself a drink, with rain sounds in the background. The song is credited to Bobby and producer HRDR, and it uses moody weather references to discuss pain and isolation. The swing rhythm gives it a jazzy sound and amplifies the melancholic feel of how the song is carried, with enough playfulness in the pace for it to be considered upbeat and hopeful, despite its gloomy subject. Even though the track has a clear sense of build-up, the melody and the hook — “I said it’s raining, raining, raining, raining” — make several repeated movements, giving it a feel of cycling through emotions. Ju-ne’s distinguishing raspy voice is one of the highlights; his vocal color matches the energy of the song, and Bobby’s, very well, and he’s able to convey the most intense emotions and tone it down when the track spaces out. On the bridge, he repeatedly sings “Save our soul”; Bobby is very open about his Christian faith. Even though Ju-ne isn’t credited in the lyrics, he’s also openly Christian, and thus able to deliver the lines with just as much meaning as they were intended to carry. “RaiNinG” was the third time that Bobby and Ju-ne worked together on a track, after the remake of Jeon Yu Na’s 1995 song “Even if I love you” (2019), a special stage for a competition show, and “Deep Night” (2020), a special song dedicated to iKON fans. 

Sources 

BOBBY – Topic. RaiNinG ft. JU-NE. YouTube. 25 Jan 2021. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKiie6btN2Q&ab_channel=BOBBY-Topic (12 May 2022)

[HOT] BOBBY, Junhoe – in love with you, 다시 쓰는 차트쇼 지금 1위는? 20190205. 5 Feb 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TpF4h4ytrw&ab_channel=MBCentertainment (12 May 2022)

iKON-ON : BOBBY & JU-NE – ‘깊은 밤’ (Deep Night). YouTube. 23 Jan 2020. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWDG4dpgG9s&ab_channel=iKON (12 May 2022)

song review: Red Velvet, “Day 1,” The Red (2015) 

29 April, 2022 — Leave a comment

Originally published on Vol. 2, No. 4 of WWLT (What We are Listening To), KPK: Kpop Kollective.

Released in September 2015, Red Velvet’s first studio album The Red (2015) was the first installment in their series of records centered around their dual concept – fresh, bright and quirky “red” and  luscious, sultry and sexy “velvet” – which was followed by The Velvet (2016), Perfect Velvet (2017) and The Perfect Red Velvet (2018). In the 10-track album, “Day 1” is the second-to-last song, credited to Hwang Hyun of production team MonoTree. The star producer, a Classic Composition major who’s been called “the Beethoven of K-pop” (Gearlounge, 2021), has a long track record in the industry, having worked with Red Velvet’s senior groups at SM Entertainment – f(x), Girls’ Generation and S.E.S – as well as the agency’s boy groups Super Junior, SHINee and EXO-CBX, plus tracks such as LOONA’s “Hi High” (2018), “Kiss Later” (2017) and “Love & Live” (2017), Gfriend’s “Apple” (2020) and Stellar’s “Vibrato” (2015). More recently, he’s been recognised for his partnership with group ONF (WM Entertainment), having worked in all of their title tracks since their debut in 2017, and most of their b-sides, which have earned the group the title of “b-side masters” (Kim, 2022). 

Hwang worked in four Red Velvet tracks, including Japanese b-side “Aitai-tai” (from their 2018 Japanese debut EP #Cookie Jar). In “Day 1”, he is credited for lyrics, music and arrangement. The song’s title refers to the first day of a new relationship, right after a confession, as two good friends discover the joy of becoming lovers. Its quirky vibe made it a fan-favorite, being usually performed by the group during the special fan moments at the end of concerts. The song opens with guitar and bass, and its melody played by trumpet. The bossa nova sound establishes a distinctive softly lively atmosphere, whose upbeat aspects are highlighted by opting for pop-rock drums instead of the tamborim. The melodic motion is mainly upwards, which gives the song a sensation of constant growth. The latter part of the bridge has added layers of vocals and synths that increase its depth and make the track even bigger, and lead listeners into the last chorus and the outro to reach peak joy and excitement. This special layering of sounds to create a bigger-than-life effect is one of the most distinguishing characteristics of Hwang Hyun’s work, which is a perfect match for Red Velvet’s vocal colors. Yeri and Irene’s playfulness, Seulgi’s endearing excitement, Joy’s loveliness, and Wendy’s warm, bright range, play an important role in the process of crafting “Day 1”’s most heart-fluttering qualities. 

Sources 

Red Velvet. “Day 1.” YouTube. 10 Nov 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTaa3Pbv9c0 (20 Apr 2022)

Red Velvet. “[HD] Red Velvet Red Mare in Japan – Day 1.” YouTube. 28 Dec 2019. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwzXDehdwEo (20 Apr 2022)

Gearlounge. “[GL Interview] K-Pop 프로듀싱 & 퍼블리싱 컴퍼니 모노트리의 대표, 황 현” [Hwang Hyun, CEO of K-Pop Production and Publishing Company MonoTree]. Gearlounge, 28 Jun, 2021, https://gearlounge.com/editorial/glinterview-yellowstring Accessed 20 Apr, 2022. 

EBS 펜타곤의 밤의 라디오 [EBS Pentagon Night Radio]. “[Full ver.] 음색노래춤컨셉 맛집 온앤오프의 매력을 알고 싶다면?! 김가네 K-POP w.김영대 평론가” [If you want to know the charm of ONF, the must-eat place for voices, songs, dance and concept? The Flavour of K-pop with Critic Kim Young-dae]. 11 Mar 2022. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSkP_jXjHRM (20 Apr 2022) 

song review: VIXX, “대.다.나.다.너 (G.R.8.U)” Jekyll (2013)

4 April, 2022 — Leave a comment

Originally published on Vol. 2, No. 3 of WWLT (What We are Listening To), KPK: Kpop Kollective.

VIXX debuted in May 2012 with a bright art pop visual concept and a catchy dance sound, with “Super Hero”, followed up by “Rock Your Body”. It wasn’t until their April 2013 comeback, with single album On and On, that they first showcased the dark, impactful image they became known for. The group presented a vampire concept, with heavy makeup, color lenses, and choreography inspired by Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”. Later that year, in May, when they released their first EP hyde, they carried on with that new bold image, borrowing from “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde” for the title track of the same name. 

In that sense, “G.R.8.U”, lead single of the repackaged version of hyde, Jekyll (2013), was a contrast; the visual concept is sunny and bright, fitting for a fun summer track. The song is credited to hit producers Hyuk Shin and Ross Lara, who discussed the creative process in a video for Full Sail University in August, 2013. They wanted to bring together different elements of multiple genres, like disco house, with “groovy happy chords” and “dancey vibes” (2013). The big chorus layers anthemic hooks on top of a heart-fluttering melody that expresses the joys of being young and in love in the Summer. The buildup is aided by bass and electric guitars; according to Lara, the addition of acoustic elements to the electronic composition helped bring the music to life (2013). The lyrics are the real tick of the song; they were penned by Kim Eana, credited in numerous number-one songs on Korean charts, such as Brown Eyed Girls’ “Abracadabra” and IU’s “Good Day”. The opening scene of the music video for G.R.8.U is a TV showing scenes of the MV for their previous title track, “hyde”, whose lyrics are also credited to Kim. Even though their visual concepts differ widely, both songs share the same overarching theme, inspired by Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde – finding a different, unexpected side of oneself next to one’s significant other. While the former approaches it from a dark, crazy evil perspective, “G.R.8.U”’s endearingly explosive sound is perfect to sing about being crazy in love.

Sources 

VIXX. “대.다.나.다.너 (G.R.8.U) Official Music Video.” YouTube. 31 Jul 2013. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vIZT-aIUKc (15 Mar 2022)

Full Sail University. “Behind the Scenes of VIXX’s “대.다.나.다.너 (G.R.8.U)” with Hyuk Shin and Ross Lara.” YouTube. 1 Aug 2013. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8_jERfgzGc (15 Mar 2022).

song review: B.I, “해변 (illa illa)” WATERFALL (2021)

1 March, 2022 — Leave a comment

Originally published on Vol. 2, No. 2 of WWLT (What We are Listening To), KPK: Kpop Kollective.

See also the extended version of this review: Through the Crashing Waves, and what there is to be found there (Apr 2022)

25-year-old rapper B.I has often remarked on the importance of movies and poetry in his songwriting, as means of experiencing, feeling or articulating things he hasn’t experienced for himself, but that can result in vivid images and evoke strong feelings from listeners. The song “illa illa”, released on 1 June, 2021 as lead single of his first full-length album, is no exception to his style of painting strong images – the song’s Korean title 해변 [haebyeon] means “beach”; the English title, although a nonexistent word, bears close resemblance to the Korean ideophones that represent the undulating movement of waves. The whole track, along with its cinematic music video, make use of seaside metaphors to talk about finding yourself washed up on the shore after nearly being swallowed by the waves of an ocean which, in this story, is made of his own tears – “at the end of my sleeves there’s a beach/ because of the tears that I wiped from my cheeks.” This specific metaphor, which structures the song, was taken from the poem “The Taste Of Candy And Beach” [사탕과 해변의 맛] by poet Seo Yun-hoo.

Originally the leader of 7-member boy group iKON, which debuted under K-pop powerhouse YG Entertainment in 2015, he was credited for every release of the group up until his departure, in mid-2019, being awarded “Songwriter of the Year” in 2018 at the Melon Music Awards, one of South Korea’s major awards shows, after their megahit “Love Scenario”, crowned “Song of The Year” at two major award shows that same year. Much like “Love Scenario”, “illa illa” doesn’t come across as particularly happy nor sad on a first listen; the production favors a minimalist approach, but without ever losing depth, with enough room for the layering of sounds to boost the vocals to an echoed atmosphere that intensifies a catchy chorus that perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the song. However, unlike his movie-inspired songwriting, these lyrics feel very personal; when his album was released, B.I was still under public scrutiny due to allegations of illegal drug purchases, the reason for his withdrawal from his former group and agency. Though still awaiting final sentencing when the song came out, in the swirling of waves, as much as it is about the sinking, “illa illa” is about the emerging; like Kat Moon (2021) writes for TIME, “On the other side of the water is dry land, and in the song’s final verses the artist triumphantly sings of not shedding new tears. “Though I know it will crumble/ I’ll probably build a sandcastle again,” he declares. With the breadth and depth of emotions he conveys, B.I. shows he’s as much a storyteller as he is a songwriter.” The music and arrangement are also credited to Millennium, Sihwang, Kang Uk-jin and Diggy, who had previously worked with B.I in iKON, as well as other artists associated with YG Entertainment, such as AKMU, WINNER and Lee Hi.

Sources 

B.I. “해변 (illa illa).” YouTube. 1 Jun 2021. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5GaVA3ebKCo (14 Feb 2022)

iKON. “‘사랑을 했다(LOVE SCENARIO).” YouTube. 25 Jan 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vecSVX1QYbQ (14 Feb 2022)

Moon, Kat. “The Best K-Pop Songs of 2021 So Far” TIME, 1 Jul. 2021, https://time.com/6077450/best-kpop-songs-2021/ Accessed 14 Feb. 2022.

song review: INFINITE, “Paradise,” Paradise (2011) 

2 February, 2022 — Leave a comment

Originally published on Vol. 2, No. 1 of WWLT (What We are Listening To), KPK: Kpop Kollective

INFINITE debuted in 2010, with the chanty Hitchhiker-produced “Come Back Again”, but it was only with the synth-pop legendary song “Be Mine”, the title track of their first full album Over the Top (2011), that the group got their first music show win, still at the beginning of their rise to one of the biggest and best-selling boy groups of their generation. This big moment was followed by a repackaged version of the album, titled Paradise (2011), promoted with the lead single of the same name. The song was one of many generation-defining INFINITE tracks by producer team Sweetune, also credited for “Be Mine”, the iconic “BTD (Before The Dawn)”, and “The Chaser”, which placed at #3 on Billboard’s Staff List of The 100 Greatest K-Pop Songs of the 2010s.

Although “Paradise” isn’t one of the synth-pop tunes they’re best known for, the group’s ability to inject tracks with emotion and skillfully carry a powerful chorus is on full display. The track starts off with striking percussion and a mighty instrumental, led by strings and the lurking texture of the electric guitar adding heaviness and helping set the tone for a song which is about loss, and the desperation to try to stop the impending end of something. There’s a sense of urgency and defeat that is conveyed by the pungency of the melody and the percussion, but especially by the vocals – not just the outstanding individual performance of each member, but also the special effect of the layering of their seven voices, a prominent trademark across INFINITE’s tracks, about which K-pop blogger and music critic Nick James (2020) said: “I often classify Infinite as a group of eight voices – seven individual tones plus that unbeatable blend when they come together. Some have compared it to the Bee Gees, but it’s more robust here [in Paradise]”. The resulting chorus sounds both like the desired Heaven, and the actual living Hell of the parting, perfectly articulating and intensifying all parts of a song that succeeds in conveying every emotion it attempts.

Sources 

INFINITE. “Paradise.” YouTube. 25 Sep 2011. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sj0FvZGSzCo  (4 Jan 2022)

James, Nick. “The 100 Best K-Pop Songs of All-Time: Number 10” The Bias List, 22 Jul. 2020, https://thebiaslist.com/2020/07/22/the-100-best-k-pop-songs-of-all-time-number-10/. Accessed 4 Jan. 2022. 

Billboard Staff. “The 100 Greatest K-Pop Songs of the 2010s: Staff List” Billboard, 25 Nov. 2019, https://www.billboard.com/media/lists/best-k-pop-songs-2010s-top-100-8544710/ Accessed 4 Jan. 2022.

song review: Red Velvet, “Knock on Wood,” Queendom (2021)

16 December, 2021 — Leave a comment

Originally published on Vol. 1, No. 1 of WWLT (What We are Listening To), KPK: Kpop Kollective

Red Velvet debuted in 2014 with the promise to bring together the elements that distinguished their predecessors, Girls’ Generation and f(x). One’s magical, sunny mass-appeal, and the other’s more experimental edge – through the fresh “Red” and the luscious “Velvet” concepts. Celebrating their seventh anniversary, the group made their first official release since ‘The ReVe Festival’ Finale (2019) with the six-track mini album Queendom (2021), released in August. The record includes the electro-punk track “Knock on Wood,” a B-side that uses a magical motif to compare the anxious desire for requited affections akin to casting a little spell (Yun, 2021).

The track is credited to duo Moonshine (Jonatan Gusmark and Ludvig Evers), Cazzi Opeia and Ellen Berg, who have worked together in previous RV tracks such as the B-side “In & Out” (2019) and the title track “Peek-A-Boo” (2017). The Korean lyrics were written by Seo Ji-Eum from Jam Factory. “Knock on Wood” opens with bewitching wobbly synths; enchanting ad-libs and vocals are layered over little finger snaps, squelches and glassy sounds (Daly, 2021) for an eerie feeling that heightens the magical element. The lyrics switch between anxiously hopeful confessions and spells, with each member adding to the atmosphere. Irene’s and Yeri’s lines are playful, mischievous – complementing Seulgi’s honey-glazed uneasiness, as well as Joy’s innocent sweetness and Wendy’s buoyant brightness, whose voices lead the pre-chorus into the chorus. The more distressed undertones of the song are resolved at the whimsical bridge, and the fairytale-like story ends with a modified chorus that expresses the assurance of getting the desired outcome. All the red flavors are there, but with the otherworldly magical edge that Red Velvet carried on from the sweet witchcraft of f(x).

Sources 

Red Velvet. “Knock on Wood.” YouTube. 16 Aug 2021. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PHINkx2So0s (8 Nov 2021)

Yun, Sanggeun 윤상근. “레드벨벳, ‘Queendom’으로 전할 감각적 음악 세계..위트 더한다” [Red Velvet to deliver a sensory music world through ‘Queendom’.. with increased wit]. 스타뉴스 STARNEWS, 9 Aug, 2021, https://entertain.naver.com/read?oid=108&aid=0002979163 Accessed 8 Nov, 2021.


Daly, Rhian. “Red Velvet – ‘Queendom’ review: a safe but sometimes spellbinding return from SM’s ruling girl group” NME, 18 Aug. 2021, https://www.nme.com/reviews/album/red-velvet-queendom-review-3022231. Accessed 7 Nov. 2021.